Counteragent
by CritterKeeper
Summary: Darien should be enjoying a week of quicksilver-free assignments. So what's the problem? (reviews, please!)


A lady named Kate Hepburn once said, "If you have to support yourself, you had bloody well better find some way that is going to be interesting." I think I've at least managed to meet her criteria.  
  
It's amazing how much I've come to like my job. I mean, I used to like my old job, but that was different. I was a thief. I enjoyed the freedom, the feeling of getting away with something, the challenge of matching wits with the security system and finding the hole that its creator missed. I never even used to think of this as a job, more like a punishment. It was something I was forced to do in order to earn my keep, which in my case comes in the form of a Keeper and the shots she supplies. I treated it like geography homework -- do as little as I could get away with and still slide by.  
  
Now, I've come to enjoy the unique challenges this job presents. Instead of matching wits with alarm systems and heads of security, I'm up against terrorists and spies, kidnappers and smugglers. Sure, occasionally there's a goofy or pointless case, but even those have been known to turn interesting.  
  
Most of all, I enjoy the chance to practice my new skills. Quicksilver has more potential than even Kevin would have believed, and I love coming up with a new way to use it. Like shooming that door, when Arnaud had kidnapped Eberts, so that we could see the bomb on the other side without setting it off. Or dropping the temperature of a bomb to keep the detonating reaction from occurring. Even sneak-and-peek lets me practice hiding all the other little signs of my presence, from choosing places to walk where I won't be making an impression in carpet or grass, to figuring out a way past a doorway filled with hanging beads, to walking on gravel or dead leaves without making any suspicious sounds.  
  
This past week, the gland and I have had quite a workout. Five missions in seven days, with me an integral part of every one of them. We rescued hostages, captured a mad bomber, defeated another twisted plot from Chrysalis, and saved the spotted owl, or at least a section of woods where they nest. Not to mention recovering a stolen data tape and some information that would have let some very nasty bad guys build a very nasty little smallpox virus. A sense of accomplishment is more than justified here, right?  
  
That's why I was so surprised when I showed up in the Official's office, a fresh shot of counteragent inside me, ready and rarin' to go out again, only to be given a pat on the back and a week off. Well, not exactly a week off. A week off from missions. The Official wanted me to spend a few days in training, learning some of the stuff any good secret agent is supposed to know but which, because of the gland, they'd kind of glossed over in getting me out into the field.  
  
Don't get me wrong, it's interesting stuff. Some of it, anyway. I'm under strict orders not to cheat, not to use quicksilver to get around any of the tasks, even if it seems like a much easier and smarter solution than what the instructor is showing me. I guess the Official doesn't want the ATF explosives expert or the CIA covert ops guy to know what I can do, which is fine by me, because I don't think I'd like the sort of missions they'd want to send me on. I've been sorely tempted to quicksilver the damn rules and regs book though, especially after sitting on my butt listening to the instructor in that drone on and on about it. But if I use the gland, I'll need a shot sooner, and they've made it clear there *is* no good excuse for that this time. Eberts even mentioned the sacred Budget. So I've been a good boy.  
  
But after three days of this stuff, I'm really starting to wish for an assignment to pull me away from it all. I've been on the target range for an hour now, firing at the same dumb targets, and my wrist is getting sore from the recoil. Okay, so I'm not dropping the clip out of my gun any more, and yes, there have been times it really would have been handy to be able to shoot back at the bad guys. But the instructor keeps pursing her lips and making little tsk noises, explaining the difference between accuracy and precision and bemoaning my lack of both. Personally, I think I've improved a lot, but catch her admitting that!  
  
I glance at my wrist while I'm reloading, and it isn't until I'm squinting down at the target, trying to hit it from a crouched position this time, that I realize it wasn't my watch I was checking, but my tattoo. That fifth segment has finally gone red, meaning I'm halfway through my six days of sanity. My reaction gives me pause, and I squeeze off the round with only half my mind on the target. Perversely enough, my aim is excellent, and the instructor gives me a little talk on how I've been overthinking, how this is a great example of how shooting should be a reflex, something I *can* do while my mind is elsewhere. Then she sends me on my way with a schedule of when the range is open, forms to fill out to requisition ammo, and orders to practice twice a day for a week, while her lessons are still fresh, before these new reflexes have a chance to fade.  
  
I head back to the office Hobbes and I share, puzzling over my feelings. I looked at the monitor, I saw five segments red, I wasn't scared. I was...impatient. I'd been thinking, in the back of my mind, *only another day of this, maybe two, and I can get my shot and get back to work.*  
  
Now, when I get close to Quicksilver Madness, the first thing to go is my judgment, so I've had to watch my own thoughts and examine my emotional reactions pretty carefully, second-guessing myself about things like how much quicksilver I can afford to use or how pissed off I should let myself get about Bobby being his usual annoying self. Some of that was bound to rub off onto the rest of my life. I thought I knew how I felt about the gland, about quicksilver, about the madness.  
  
That last scares the hell out of me. When I'm in the midst of it, I love it, and I think that scares me the most of all. I do *not* want to hurt anyone, and I don't want to end up in a rubber room for the next thirty years. I don't want them writing me off as hopeless and killing me so they can put the gland in some other poor schmuck. I can remember everything I do when I'm QSM, remember how I felt, what I thought. Once I'm out of it, those thoughts and actions are like some alien thing did them, and I totally cannot understand where they came from. I *hate* the loss of control.  
  
Prodding at the question like a tongue at a sore tooth, I finally satisfy myself that I'm not hiding any secret desire to go nuts. It's not tempting in the least. So why the preoccupation with the monitor?  
  
The monitor tells me two things, really. When I'm in danger of going mad, and when it's time for a shot of counteragent. So it's got to be the counteragent I'm worrying about.  
  
Lost in thought, my feet have taken me, not to my office, but to the Keep. That's okay, though, because I've just thought of something that I want to ask my Keeper.  
  
Running my keycard through the scanner, I greet Claire cheerfully enough. She's got her eyes glued to a microscope and returns my greeting without lifting her head.  
  
"Darien! This is a surprise. Not that I don't love your company, but aren't you supposed to be on quicksilver-free assignments this week?"  
  
"Yup, and I've been good. Just barely five red. But that is what I wanted to talk to you about. I was just thinking...."  
  
Claire looks up from her slide as I perch on the lab counter beside her. "Didn't hurt yourself, did you?"  
  
"Ha, ha. No, I was just wondering about the Official's sudden change of heart. Whether there's a reason he's laying off the assignments all of a sudden. You've given me counteragent six times in four days. You didn't run out, did you? I mean, I'm not gonna show up here in a couple of days and find the cupboard's bare?"  
  
Claire purses her lips and swings her chair around to face me, sliding down in it to do a little slouching of her own. "Darien, I thought you trusted me better than that."  
  
"I do trust you, I do," I nod. "I don't trust *him*, but you I trust. I just thought, maybe, you didn't want to worry me or something. I mean, you gotta admit it's a little strange, how we had so many cases and then, bam! nothing."  
  
"Sometimes things turn out that way, Darien. This sort of work is very unpredictable." She gestures towards the refrigerator. "Which is why I started a new batch of counteragent the minute I heard you were going to be busy. There should be plenty, especially if you're not going to be active for a couple of weeks."  
  
My heart races when I hear her say there's plenty of counteragent. I can almost taste it, can picture it perfectly, in its little vials in the refrigerator, just waiting for me.  
  
Then her later words catch up to me.  
  
"A couple of weeks? Wait a minute, Keep, do you know something I don't? Is there something you're not telling me?"  
  
She shrugs, not quite meeting my eye but not finding an excuse to look away, either. "I suggested to the Official that he postpone any missions that aren't critical, time-wise, for a couple of weeks, that's all. To give your system a break."  
  
"And he took your suggestion, just like that?"  
  
"He trusts my judgment, where the gland is concerned, anyway. I simply reminded him that overuse could lead to you developing a tolerance to the counteragent."  
  
"And you think he's been overusing me?" I ask, worried. "I mean, I'm not showing any signs of --"  
  
"You're fine, Darien. I just want to *avoid* the problem ever coming up."  
  
"Okay." I shrug. "Then I guess it's a good thing he's giving me a break." I smile at her, hoping it doesn't look as forced as it feels. "Thanks for looking out for me, Keep."  
  
"That's my job," she says casually, eyes already glued to her microscope again.  
  
  
  
I stop by the office I share with Hobbes long enough to check my mail and collect a few books, then head home. For the first time since I dropped out of college, I actually have homework, and I figure I might as well do it at home.  
  
Kids always complain about homework, but one thing Kevin and I had in common, was that if the subject was interesting, we both could get really interested in the homework, too. Of course, I was always more interested in the homework Liz gave me than in what the official teachers assigned, but in this case, one of my reading assignments is a fascinating little book which I'm sure the NSA would deny ever publishing, that had a few tips and tricks about covert entry that I'm sure even Liz probably never imagined.  
  
And, just like in school, I keep finding things the book got wrong, too. I start a list, just to see the look on the guy's face when I pull it out tomorrow. It'll prove that I actually did the homework *and* piss him off, in one swell foop, as my aunt used to say.  
  
I'm enjoying myself, right? So how come I just caught myself looking at that damned tattoo, impatiently waiting for that sixth segment to turn?  
  
Okay, this makes no sense. I can understand my being impatient when I thought that after my shot, I'd be getting back to work. Especially when I was bored with what I was doing in the meantime. But now? When I know that all that awaits me after the shot is another week of more of the same?  
  
Reluctantly, I have to admit to myself that it's the shot itself I'm impatient for.  
  
Now that I've put my finger on it, impatient doesn't seem like a strong enough word. Not by a long shot. It's like an itch at the back of my brain, one that's been growing for days, even if I haven't let myself admit it until now. And like most itches, once I'm aware of it, the urge to scratch is overpowering.  
  
I try to ignore it, to distract myself. After re-reading the same paragraph half a dozen times, I slam the book shut in frustration and begin to pace the room.  
  
Arnaud's taunt comes back to me. *You can almost smell it, can't you? The counteragent....*  
  
"Damn it," I yell, grabbing up the regs book and throwing it across the room. It lands with a satisfying thud, and I picture it hitting Arnaud's head. Right in that smug smile of his.  
  
"I am not going to let this control me," I promise myself, pacing the room again, stomping the floor with my bare feet. The anger helps a little. "I will *not* let him win, not that Swiss Miss mother -- Ow!" My big toe connects with the regs book and I hop back to the couch.  
  
"Aw, Crap!" I hope it's not broken, I'd hate to have to explain to Claire how it happened. At least it takes my mind off the counteragent for a while.  
  
  
  
It's easier while I'm keeping busy, interacting with other people. I can't keep my mind on the lectures where I'm just sitting there, but I actually do better on the firing range. Maybe there's something to that thing about not thinking too hard about shooting. Hands-on stuff I can do, talking back and forth I can do. I can even seem normal. But it's there, that itch that needs scratching, waiting for me.  
  
I get a break in the early afternoon and head for the office. Hobbes is at his desk, indulging in a pastrami on rye. He's chattering on cheerfully about his day. It's giving me a headache. Not a quicksilver headache, not yet, just a regular one, but it's bad enough. I can't hold it in any more, and I snap at him. I regret it instantly. He takes everything so personally, looks like I've just kicked a puppy. I apologize, and I really do mean it.  
  
"Aw, crap, Hobbes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." I glance at my wrist, wave my tattoo at him. "That time of month, y'know?"  
  
The joke, and the implication that it's not really me snapping at him, work. He smiles back at me hesitantly. "You're not going buggo yet, are you, partner?"  
  
"No, no, I'm good for another day or two before I turn homicidal." I rub the back of my neck out of habit. "I just didn't sleep that well last night."  
  
"Nightmares?" He's all sympathy now. He knows how much the quicksilver-soaked dreams can get to me. Actually, they weren't a problem last night, because I never settled down enough to sleep, but he doesn't need to know that. He gestures towards my desk. "Why don't you put your head down, catch a few winks? I'll wake you if anybody needs you."  
  
I give him a tired smile in return. "Thanks, partner. I think I'll try it."  
  
At first, I think it's gonna work. I am *so* tired, all I want is to close my eyes and turn my mind off for an hour or so. But then Arnaud's voice drifts up out of my memory as it sometimes does when I think about the counteragent.  
  
*"No, I mean what do you *really* want?"*  
  
I want to be free of the gland. I want to kill Arnaud with my bare hands, or at least kick the crap out of him. I want to get some sleep. And behind it all, I want the counteragent.  
  
Such a mix of emotions, one I usually try very hard to ignore. It's harder, this time, than I can ever remember it being. Except maybe those first weeks, when it was all I could think about.  
  
It must be because I was getting it so often last week. My body got used to it, and now I can't stop thinking about it. I talk about the gland turning me into a junkie, but I had no idea.  
  
*"You can't resist, believe me, I know. I helped design it that way."*  
  
The hell of it is, he's right. I can't take this, I can't. I hate myself for it, but there's no way I can wait until late tonight or early tomorrow, when the monitor finally hits seventy percent and Claire will deign to give me a shot.  
  
I want to go to the Keep and beg her to give me the shot early, but I know she won't. She's stronger than I am, at least about this. She'll lock me up if she has to, and I have a terrible feeling she might have to.  
  
I shift restlessly. Through slitted eyes, I can see Hobbes glance at me in concern. If he thinks I'm having a nightmare, he'll wake me, I know it. He's a good partner that way.  
  
It would take so little quicksilver use to push me over the edge, to get me to the point where I'd be justified in asking for counteragent. But there's no mission, no excuse, to explain why. They'd ask questions. They'd want explanations. They might even figure out what was going on, and I don't think I could face them if they knew.  
  
A little whimper of frustration escapes my lips, so faint even I can barely hear it. Hobbes whispers my name softly, and I force myself to keep still until he turns back to his paperwork.  
  
I know now how I could do it. I can get my shot early, and no one will think it's deliberate. It's even something I can use over and over, if I'm careful. That scares me even more, because I can see myself doing it so easily, digging myself into a hole that will be hell to climb back out of. And they'll make me, sooner or later. My Keeper will drag me back out no matter how much it hurts.  
  
But I just can't wait any longer. I can't!  
  
All right, then. I make a devil's pact with myself. I'll do it. But just this once. No more. And since I know my will is so weak, once I'm fixed up, I'll find a way to let Claire know there's a problem. I'm not sure how I'll do it, without giving myself away, but I'll figure something out. I promise.  
  
I shift around again, and cry out softly, wordlessly. Jerk my shoulders a little. "No!" Softly, as if I'm asleep and having a nightmare.  
  
I can hear Hobbes starting to get up from his desk. Heading towards mine.  
  
Crying out again, a little louder, I put all the fear I can into my voice. And then I turn loose the quicksilver.  
  
It slides across my skin and around my clothing, cool and viscous. I can feel it crawling through my veins, driving me closer to the madness I hate, but if I time it right, I'll be safe, and I'll have my shot.  
  
Hobbes calls out my name, running the few steps between us. I should be fading away now, and just on the edge of visibility, I jerk backwards in my chair, crying out loudly and fearfully. The chair skitters across the room and I hit the floor with a thump, slapping my now-invisible hand against the ground to make it sound even louder.  
  
"Fawkes!" He's really worried now, and I'm really, truly sorry for scaring him like this. It strengthens my resolve to make sure I never do this to him again. I can hear him moving, searching the floor for me. I shift and moan a little. His hand connects with my shoulder and he pulls it back from the cold, then gently pushes against me with his foot. "C'mon, Fawkes! Talk to me! Are you okay?"  
  
"Hobbes?" I whisper in a confused voice. I rub my hand against my shoulder where I hit as I let the quicksilver fall away. Hobbes is at my side as soon as the flakes drift away, checking me over for damage. "What -- what happened?"  
  
"You tell me, partner. You were asleep at your desk, and then, shoom!" He rights my chair and I sink back into it.  
  
"I quicksilvered in my sleep?"  
  
"Was it another nightmare? You sounded like you were having a nightmare."  
  
"I guess...." I rub the back of my head, where the warning headache is well underway now. Hobbes catches my hand and turns it so he can see the monitor. We can both see that there are now only three green segments. Inside, I congratulate myself on excellent timing. Outside, I mutter, "Aw, crap."  
  
"C'mon, my friend, I'm getting you to the Keeper. She's got to know about this, and you need a shot."  
  
"I'm okay," I demur, but I lean against him as he helps me up.  
  
My timing isn't quite as good as I thought. On the way down in the elevator, the attack hits me. The pain is almost enough to make me change my mind about how good an idea this was; almost, but not quite. The pull of the counteragent is strong enough to make even this pain bearable.  
  
I'm still in the midst of it when the doors open, and I can hear Hobbes calling out for help, hear the Keeper's footsteps running towards me. It eases as she arrives, but I let Hobbes describe my nightmare-induced quicksilvering while I recover. Claire checks the monitor, where there are now only two green segments, and helps Hobbes get me into the Keep.  
  
"Has this ever happened before?" she asks as she gets the counteragent out of the fridge and starts getting the shot ready. I have to take a deep breath before answering, to keep the naked desire from showing when I look at her and the syringe in her hand.  
  
"No, never." I frown. I can't quite meet her eyes. "At least, not that I know of. I mean, if it has, I slept through it." I shake my head. "No, if I'd done it in my sleep without waking up, the monitor would still show it."  
  
She comes to my side and I look away, closing my eyes, afraid of what they might see there. I can feel the needle enter my vein, and then the sting of the injection. That sting chases away the itching, nagging need that's been haunting me. I'm left with cool blue calm running through my veins, soothing away the hints of madness, the spiders of quicksilver crawling through my mind.  
  
I allow myself a sigh of relief. Surely I'm entitled, after that attack in the elevator.  
  
  
  
Hobbes won't leave until the Keeper assures him I'm alright, and that she's got to run some tests before she can make any guesses why I quicksilvered in my sleep. I'm pretty sure there's no way for her to tell that that wasn't what happened, so I'm not worried. Not about her tests, anyway.  
  
She draws some blood, looking so concerned I want to tell her the truth. I don't, but I want to. Kind of like how it was with Casey, trying to admit to her that I was a thief, that I was less than she thought I was. I couldn't do it then, and I can't do it now. At least, not directly. But I made a promise to myself, and if I can't keep it now, when I've got a fresh shot of counteragent inside of me, I might let it slide forever.  
  
"You're very quiet," Claire observes as she places my free hand over a cotton ball and has me apply pressure where the needle went in. It's an invitation to talk, but a gentle one.  
  
"I'm scared," I admit bluntly. The rest will have to be half-truths and hints, but this I'm justified in admitting, even within my cover story.  
  
"Scared of losing control?" The blood goes into tubes with different colored tops, and she labels them and sticks some into a centrifuge. The hum in the background is somehow comforting.  
  
"Yeah, but not how you think." I check under the cotton. There's hardly any bruise; Claire says I'm lucky that way, that I have good veins. "I mean, yes, I'm scared that if Hobbes hadn't been there to wake me, I might have stayed quicksilvered until I lost it. But there's something else."  
  
She puts a tiny drop of blood onto a glass slide and uses the edge of a second slide to pull it out into a thin film. As she holds it over a Bunsen burner to heat-fix it, I know she's got more than enough attention to spare for me, so I'm not offended that she keeps working.  
  
"I've never done this before." That's the truth! "And it scares me to think about why it happened now." Also true. I'm pretty sure I'm right about this. "Claire, I think it's because I was using quicksilver and the counteragent so much, in so short a time. Kevin said my body had become chemically dependent on quicksilver. Arnaud....he said counteragent was addictive. That was his way to control people with the gland. I think my body was going into some kind of withdrawal. Maybe for the counteragent, maybe for the quicksilver itself. And when I fell asleep, my defenses went down and that need took over."  
  
She finishes staining the slide and sets it leaning against the edge of a stack of paper towels to dry. She shakes her head and meets my eyes so her words will sink in, so I know she's serious. "I really don't think so, Darien. I mean, if your body had become that dependent, surely you would have felt something while you were awake, some kind of warning that this...." She trails off, studying my face. I look away, but too late.  
  
"Darien! What haven't you been telling me? You have been experiencing withdrawal, haven't you?"  
  
"Yeah...." The word is dry and almost inaudible. I wet my lips and try again. "For the last day or two. But I thought I had a handle on it. That I could deal with it until it was time for my shot. I didn't think...." I turn to meet her eyes. "I thought I could beat this thing. That I was still in control." I can feel a tear in the corner of one eye, and try to angle my head so that she can't see it. "I guess I'm not."  
  
She's sad, but it's not the disappointment at my lack of willpower that I was expecting. "Why didn't you come to me, Darien? Don't you trust me enough to tell me when you're in trouble?" She shakes her head and turns back towards the microscope. She slams her hand against the counter, making me jump in my chair. "I should have realized! Darien, it's my fault. I let them work you too hard, use too much counteragent too fast, and then I tried to make you quit cold turkey as if that would make up for it. It's no wonder your body rebelled."  
  
I'm not sure if I've pushed it too far, given away too much. Has she guessed what I did? That it was me, and not some subconscious reflex? If she has, she's not telling.  
  
The loophole isn't closed yet, though. The next step is the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life. Harder than forgiving my brother. Harder than saying goodbye to Jessica Semplar. Harder than saying no to Arnaud's deal, crouched against a wall with a gun to my head and madness crawling through my veins.  
  
"Claire, help me beat this thing. Help me go the whole six days, or as close as I can. Keep me awake if you have to. Stay with me. But don't let me lose to this now."  
  
Six days without counteragent. As close to the abyss as I can come without falling into it. It scares the crap out of me, but the craving scares me even more. I'm already thinking about my next fix. I knew enough junkies in the joint to know how dangerous that sort of thinking can be, that it's a sure sign the drugs have you in their grip.  
  
I reach out my hand and touch her upper arm. "Claire, please....don't put this in your reports. Chalk it up as a fluke. Don't let anyone know how close I am, how hard this is." I can see her reluctance. "At least....when you write up your reports, picture Luke Lawson reading over your shoulder. Think about what a guy like him could do to me, if he knew.  
  
"That's what scares me, Keep. The idea that I'm addicted to this stuff is bad enough, but the fact that it could be used to control me....If I'm this bad after a busy week, what would it be like after a month of heavy activity? What happens when they withhold the counteragent then?"  
  
She asked if I trusted her. I'm trusting her now, with a road map to enslaving my psyche. If I've misjudged her, then face it, I'm screwed. But I don't think I've misjudged her. She hated Lawson as much as I did, hated what he tried to do to me. And let's face it, I can't get through this on my own, and there aren't a lot of options on who to trust to help me beat this thing.  
  
Her hand comes up to rest on top of mine. She smiles a sad little smile that shows just how scared and touched she is. "All right, Darien. If that's the way you want to do it, I'll help you." She releases my hand and I let it fall. "Actually, this little incident may have been perfectly timed. You got your shot maybe a day early, so you should be able to make it longer the next time. If I'd known what was going on, I probably would have tried something like this anyway." She's back to her microscope and her slides, multitasking as usual. "I still need to run these tests, but if nothing unexpected comes up, I'll just let the Official know it was a, uh, fluke. Due to your being overworked. That you need another week off to prevent a repeat performance."  
  
Meeting my eyes one last time, she asks me, "Will you be alright for a few days?"  
  
"I'll manage."  
  
"Let me know the minute you start having problems," she cautions me. "Even if I don't make a record of it, *I* need to know what sort of symptoms you're showing and when. If you really want me to help you, you'll have to help me."  
  
"Thank you," I tell her simply. We hold each others' gaze for a moment, a promise between us, and then she looks away and gets back to work. I lay back in the demented dentist's chair, and after everything that's happened the last few days, is it any wonder I drift off to sleep?  
  
Mark Twain once cautioned, "If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything." I had a lot less to remember than I'd expected, and a lot more to be grateful for. It was going to be hell, but at least I wouldn't be in it alone.  
  



End file.
